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Open Poetry #48
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The Tombs
| Open Poetry #48 |
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The Tombs |
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Michael
Moderator
Member Rara Avis
since 1999-08-13
Posts 7666California 
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The Tombs With ardor I have scoured the tomes— Have searched the hidden catacombs... With all doggedness have searched I For Death, who will not let me die. Awakened to this dismal state, Surely imagined by dire Fate; I rode the carriage straight to hell, And stood to sound the mourning knell. The wind sought me with feint echoes Of ever awaiting gallows, But there, all hell poured into me This curse from which I shan't be free, And so I walked the pathway back, To live this life— this aftermath Of dream so entangled with pain, I can't help but sing its refrain. Where the dead gather, near and far, To grieve with me this unseen scar To share anguish I hold within... My last, selfish, undying sin. In search of all that they once held, I move on, utterly compelled, Toward life, I once thought was living— Life, which proves so unforgiving. And it's there the pattern is sprung, In truths I've clutched since I was young— The lies leading to this nightmare, Simple guides for the unaware! I cringe, I groan, I scream, I writhe, But just can't seem to pay her tithe; Awaiting that which is my due, An eternity without you. I wander, deviant, the night, To protect my eyes from that blight Which swallows my world by day, Sleeping awake, through the decay. As, looking to those pitch black skies, Loathing the man behind these eyes, An unsettling aura abounds— An unthinking darkness resounds... And so, I turn the search to him Who stole you from me— him, so grim! That stalker of such pale hue, The thought of him all living rue! With torment turned to bitter hate— With hunger I can't satiate, I drift with the foreboding wave Far beyond any future grave— Far beyond rational recourse, To meet him at the very source Of emptiness turning these rooms Of our house to a well of tombs... For memory, for love, for bliss— For the ecstasy of your kiss— For all those sins upon my cross I've carried in the name of Loss. Yes Death, himself, I would bring death, With, or without, a living breath Left inside me— inside this shell Of a man who knows well his hell! Yet Death, that shrewd and cunning being, With all I've searched— with all I'm seeing Wilting within my very hand, Reassures me, 'tis I who's damned. Abandoned purpose, the one fear Without which I might disappear... It's here, if unconsciously drawn, This cycle I've stumbled upon. The truths of such bleak existence Are never met, though persistence Pushes me of its own accord... Emptiness is its sole reward. And so to hell and back I ride, In search of Death I've been denied... All I touch dying by my hand, All 'ever loved, lifeless and damned! The mystery that Death presides Over, within these tombs resides... Still, mirrors just won't let me see 'Tis but Death looking back at me. Michael Anderson 13/01/02 [This message has been edited by Michael (09-05-2013 06:45 PM).] |
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| © Copyright 2013 Michael Anderson - All Rights Reserved | |||
Paul Wilson
since 2002-07-07
Posts 4711United States |
" DAMN " Michael if you never write another poem you should consider this your greatest. This sounds like your epitaph. One cannot imagine the pain of which you write and feel. Take care my friend in this hell you reside in...Paul ~~To share my poems with you is to share my heart with you~~ |
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JerryPat2 Member Laureate
since 2011-02-06
Posts 16975South Louisiana |
Taking the depths of your horrific pain and suffering as you leave your words in the blue room, you leave your legacy. ~*~ If they give you lined paper write sideways. ~*~ |
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